I had been the reigning shuffleboard champion for three years in a row; one year I had retired from the game but decided to come back last year to recapture my title—and did. The only competitors were my Dad, my Mom and myself. Few, yes, but the competition was as stiff as a morning erection.
Some years my Dad had pulled out of the competition, the same way my mother had requested he pull out before he shot the fateful load that nine months later led to me coming out of my Mom’s vag. It seemed this year his hip was bothering him, an injury he said he acquired from national competition but I knew to be from my patented “accidentally jab your opponent with the back of your cue” maneuver from last year. And so it was just my Mom and me left to battle it out for the title.
I had put on one of the new pairs of underwear that my Mom had bought me just the other day [see “Let’s Go Shopping" http://rebelyogi.com/lets-go-shopping.html]. It was a little snugger than I like and while it’s true that I looked like a sexy beast, my nads weren’t getting the elbow room they tend to like when hanging out with their friend who’s a dick.
This was the first night game we had played. I had the sense that my Mom had trained under these conditions as she nonchalantly flipped on the lights and the court illuminated, well, sort of. Half of the court was dimly lit, which led to the constant need to run to the other side to check if a shot was in or on the line. I suspected that my Mom had intentionally pre-dimmed the light, as it seemed that I was the one who was elected to check each shot on the dark side and I started to feel it taxing my endurance, energy that I could have used to stay focused on sliding my cocklepuck into the respective shuttlezone.
The first game we played I couldn’t find my stroke. It reminded me of a bad masturbation session I had where I tried using everything from peanut butter to grape jelly as lubricant and finally figured out the problem lay with my stroke and so I just gave up, rubbed my prick on a couple of slices of bread and made me a sandwich. My Mom took the first game, which was unprecedented.
You see, ever since the ping-pong game in the basement back when I was around 12 where I had a fair lead over my Mom and started taking it “easy” on the old lady until she overtook me and won the game, leaving me crying in anger, “I can’t believe I lost to you—you suck!” I have always played balls-to-the-wall in any competition with her. But the combination of the dim half court and the lack of circulation to my gonads left me needing to win the next two games in order to win the tournament.
“My balls are numb!” I complained and suddenly I suspected foul play. “I think you bought me these tight underwears in order to throw my game, knowing full well that I would want to be as fresh as possible for the competition and wear them.” My Mom just laughed and I spent the first few shots of the second game questioning myself whether her laugh was at my apparent “joke” or whether it was one of those evil, “HOO HOO HA HA! You figured it out!” laughs. I concluded that she plotted this, already having six grandchildren and not caring in the least that she was in effect sterilizing her youngest son all for a game. Bitch.
I started to find my stroke and landed a few 8-pointers and 7-pointers and even an occasional 10, while for the most part avoiding the “-10” shuttlezone. I started to use my own nonchalant psych games on my Mom, like jabbing her with the back of my cue as I “wound up” for my shot and calling her cell phone numerous times and hanging up to break her concentration as she was about to shoot and, at critical moments, pulling out my foghorn and blasting it in her face. It worked and I pulled off the second game with a win.
We were split, one game each, and neither one of us was prepared to go down without a fight. I noticed that she had gained a few pounds of fat around her waist and realized that during the four nights of all-you-can-eat buffets we went to that week, she was intentionally packing on the weight to act as padding to cushion her from my cue jabs. She had been scouting me. Pretty sneaky, sis! [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WU1K4X_LOxY] It also had the effect of making her ass even more bulbous than it normally is, which required me many times to ask her to move her position, as her ass was casting a huge shadow on the court.
But as we started the last game, I was on fire. This was due to her “accidentally” lighting my shorts on fire when she was lighting up her cigarette—a habit that she “coincidentally” just took up on the day of our match. When we put out the fire, my new synthetic undies laid in a pile of ashes on the ground. My “boys” were liberated and I felt like a new man, despite the fact that all my pubes were burned off in the incident. [http://www.southparkstudios.com/clips/152557]
I was putting on points and switched on the powerful commercial electric magnet I had pre-positioned under the “-10” box and with the help of last nights drilling and filling, her lead-filled cocklepuck started to “stick.” I had about 37 points and she was at -6. I not only wanted to beat my mother but I wanted to humiliate her to the point where she felt sorry for ever birthing me. Well, she already did on that front—I have the scars on my forehead from the attempted abortion with a hanger at 8 ½ months to prove this.
I had 49 points in our game to 50. All I needed was to put something on the board and the trophy was once again mine, ya’ understand, all mine, go, go, go! [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rcCXnXDiKoQ] I was shooting first and landed a cocklepuck on the “7.” She tried to knock it out but missed altogether. I taunted her for a few minutes, mostly focusing on how her fat ass was throwing off her coordination. My next shot landed an “8”; the bitch was going down!
She got down to her last cocklepuck and needed to hit a miraculous shot that would knock both of my cocklepuck from their respective point-accumulating quadrants. While I seemed in a pretty good spot, I hid the nervous tension that filled my gut, as she had already pulled a few crazy shots out of her ass, one of which knocked me out of points and into the “-10”—while at the same time landing her into points. I thought she had an unfair advantage, as with an ass that large, who but her proctologist knew what else she had in store up there?
Her last shot knocked my “8” out but left the “7” on the board and I had crossed the magic “50” mark! I took the traditional victory lap with my cue held high overhead, a tradition that I had started the first year I won the family tournament. I told her, “I can’t lose to you—you suck!” and suddenly the trauma of the little boy of 12 who had lost to his mother in ping-pong had washed away from me and not only was I the shuffleboard champion, but I had purged a large trauma that this evil woman had inflicted on me when I was only a boy and now felt that anything was possible.
I dropped my cue and walked off the court, addressing my Mom with, “Clean up, loser!” similar to how I address my women after I blow a load in their face. I walked back to the condo where my Dad was on his bed reading.
“What happened?” he asked curiously.
“Let’s just say, the best man won and by ‘man’ I mean the one with the set of balls, which happen to be feeling a little better now, thanks for asking.”
If I died at that very moment, my life would have been complete. Unfortunately, I didn’t. And so now I have to specter of next year’s competition weighing on me. Hopefully my parents will die before then.
I am disappointed that you aren’t wearing the infamous 4 colored shirt in that picture.
And it doesn’t count to have it under a jacket. We can’t see it.